My Unintended
by Lia Kada
Summary: Haymitch x Katniss. Takes place after she returns to District 12 as it's being rebuilt. Pretty much canon compliant until then. Feedback appreciated. x
1. Chapter 1

_Author's Note: This is my attempt at a full-length Haymitch x Katniss story that takes place right after Katniss returns to District 12 and it's being rebuilt, pretty much compliant with all canon before that. The chapters will be short but I'm going to try to make a lot. I might not get to update that often because of school, but I'll try because I love writing this pairing. Let me know what you think of the style; I personally don't like the way the Hunger Games are written, but I feel compelled to write fanfics in the same style of the original work. Anyways, I really like reviews (hint, hint), but don't bother reviewing if you're just going to say, "OMG THIS PAIRING IS SO GROSS HOW COULD YOU EVEN SHIP THIS OMG!" Also, here's a disclaimer: I don't own the Hunger Games (obviously). Lastly, if you want to see the Haymitch x Katniss fanmixes I make, go to francescafarmer(dot)tumblr(dot)com/tagged/fanmix. That will take you to a page full of all of the fanmixes I've made; there are a couple Haymitch x Katniss ones in there already, but I plan on making more. Click on the ".zip" to download. Thank you, and sorry for such a long note!_

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><p><strong>My Unintended<strong>: Chapter 1

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><p>There's only one word to describe the way I feel as my new life in District 12 begins.<p>

Empty.

Empty because Prim's gone, though the whole thing still feels surreal. Empty because my mother's off in District 4; I knew she would disappear again if something bad happened. Empty because I've pushed away the one boy who truly loved me.

Peeta Mellark.

I don't know why I thought we could make our relationship work. Everything was so complicated between us that thinking about it made my head ache and something in my stomach burn and I'd collapse onto the ground of my home, crying as memories of the Games and his brainwashing and the rebellion resurfaced. I never knew what I wanted. I still don't. But our relationship isn't so complicated anymore. Why? Because we don't have one. I haven't talked to him in weeks, despite the fact that we're neighbors. I'm relieved that he's finally stopped trying. Maybe he can meet a girl who deserves him. Delly Cartwright, maybe. I don't care. I try not to care. I shouldn't care.

District 12 was rebuilt so that I live in an isolated section with only three buildings: my house, Peeta's bakery - he sleeps on the second floor and works on the first, and Haymitch's house. It's not so much respect that causes us to get our own area; it's fear. Everyone knows us as the leaders of the rebellion, the mentally unstable killers, the root of so much violence.

They should be scared.

I can't count the number of times I wake up screaming and crying. At first, I missed Peeta being there to hold me. But then I realize that it's not Peeta I miss. It's just the thought of _someone_ being there. It makes me feel so selfish that I vow to fight off my nightmares myself. I try sleep syrup. It works, but only a little. Still, I up my dosage every few weeks in order to maintain its small effect. It's better than nothing.

Some days I go hunting, but not nearly as much as I used to. There's no one left to hunt for. Buttercup eats bugs and mice. I don't eat much of anything. Most of the time, I lie in my bed and think. It tortures me, but I don't have the motivation to do anything else.

The days turn into weeks turn into months. Nothing is changing. Nothing is happening. It's the same day a million times. I cry less, which is an improvement. Greasy Sae stops by sometimes with soup and I eat it just to humor her. But she can tell I'm getting thinner and she purses her lips at me with a displeased look on her face that almost makes me want to start eating enough to sustain my body again. Almost.

It's been almost four months since I've moved back to 12. I haven't heard from my mother or Gale. I'm taking two bottles of sleep syrup a night just to guarantee myself four or five hours of uninterrupted rest. I haven't looked at myself in the mirror but I can feel my bones threatening to poke out from under my skin.

Good. I deserve it. If I die, it still doesn't make up for all of the lives that were lost because of my actions. My existence.

And tonight, I think it's happening. My death.

I chug three bottles of sleep syrup and shut my eyes. But I can't sleep. As I open my eyes, I realize that everything's jet black. I feel dizzy even though I'm lying down. I feel a sick swirling in my stomach and a thudding on my head, like a club on a pendulum. Pain explodes spasmodically all over me and I'm sure that this is the end, a kinder one than I deserve.

Somewhere in between my seizures, I start to scream. I can't help it. I see red spots and bombs and Finnick's head and a spear soaring into Rue's body and the Tracker Jackers descending onto Glimmer and the wound in Peeta's leg and white lizards and a bleeding mouth and an arrow in a president's body and ferocious hounds and a girl turned into a torch. Over and over again, like the propos recorded for the rebellion and played and cut and compiled, overriding the Capitol's broadcast, terrorizing the watchers…

"What's going on?" I can hear someone yell, though it sounds muffled and distant. "You okay, sweetheart?"

I know that voice. I'm sure I know it. But it floats beyond my mind's grasp. I can't think. I'm dying. Let me die, I want to say. Let me be with Prim. Rue. Finnick. Madge. Let me go.

Someone grabs me and pick me up. I want them to leave me alone yet I can't help but feel safe and comforted in their strong, firm embrace. And I'm moving, and I feel so heavy, like lead, and I just want to disintegrate into dust and fly off in the wind and settle into the forest and the lake and the meadow.

My eyes are open, but I'm not seeing, so I shut them. The voice asks me if I can hear him. I try to nod my head but it's too painful to move. I move my lips, too tired to speak. He sets me down and I feel something warm inside me, a burning liquid. I try to spit it out, but more just floods in, dribbling down my shirt. It scalds my chest. I just want everything to end. Why is this happening?

I'm filled with a burning sensation now. Everywhere. I hear frantic scurrying around me. I can sense the energy in the air. A blanket wraps itself around me. A pillow finds its way behind my head. Nutrients sneak down my throat. I'm conflicted. I don't deserve them, any of them. But it feels nice.

And then I fade away, but in a different way than I had been previously hoping. A new way.

For the first time since I can remember, I fall into a comfortable, deep, and completely dreamless slumber.


	2. Chapter 2

_Author's Note: Please let me know how I'm doing on characterizations! Reviews = love. Also, please check out my Haymitch x Katniss Tumblr, aber-deen (dot) tumblr (dot) com. :)_

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><p><strong>My Unintended<strong>: Chapter 2

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><p>I am a mess, both emotionally and physically.<p>

I am a mess.

That's really the only way to put it. It's as if little bits and pieces of millions of puzzles were thrown together and fashioned into a jumbled-up atrocity by a careless idiot who abandoned it shortly afterwards. I am a mess, and I am alone.

When my eyes open, I can see again. I don't know whether to be angry or thankful, but I'm curious. Everything is clearer. For the first time in a while, my stomach isn't begging me for food. I can think a little bit. I remember my seizure. I won't call it a suicide attempt because no attempt at anything was really made. I'm too lethargic to attempt anything.

I'm not in a hospital, thankfully. I don't want doctors. I can't stand people fussing over me, fixing me, drugging me. I don't trust them. The only doctor I've ever trusted is Prim, and she…

I hear a scream echo through the otherwise silent room I haven't yet cared to identify. A few seconds pass before I realize that it was my scream. There's a dull ache in my head, but otherwise, I feel surprisingly fine. A little bit numb, but better than before. Cozier.

I look around me. The room I'm in looks more like a home than my house does, but that still isn't saying much. I'm wrapped in a fluffy blanket that smells like something familiar, but I can't place names on anything right now. I'm lying down in a bed. The room is dimly lit and smells faintly of alcohol.

I hear footsteps dashing frantically towards me, and Haymitch Abernathy is in the room yelling, "What happened? Why were you screaming?"

It takes a second for all of the stimuli to register in my mind. I am Katniss Everdeen. I am eighteen years old... Tired of the exercise, I fast-forward. My sister is dead. District 12 is being rebuilt. I was dying. Haymitch Abernathy found me.

For once, it's Haymitch who saved me instead of Peeta. It's odd. Why would he save me? How did he know I was dying?

"Why?" I whisper, my voice gravelly. It's all I can say. It's all I need to say.

There's a look on his face I can't quite recognize. It's a new expression for him. When he speaks, his voice sounds oddly sincere. Tired, but kind. Fluctuating in deepness, hoarser the longer he speaks. "Don't throw your life away, sweetheart."

"How can you of all people say that?" I retort in an accusatory tone. I can't help it.

"If you really care, I'm not drunk right now. Haven't had anything in over two days," he says bitterly, rubbing his bony face with unusually steady hands. His wavy hair is a tousled mess and he appears to have lost a solid amount of weight.

I furrow my eyebrows in confusion. "What happened?"

"I ran out of the good stuff a couple days back. I was going out last night to wait for the train to come with the new shipments. That's when I heard you scream," he explains.

"Oh." It makes sense. Why would Haymitch stop drinking voluntarily?

"Why wasn't Peeta with you?" he inquires, but I'm sure he knows the answer.

"We don't talk," I respond curtly.

Haymitch doesn't ask any other questions. I'm glad there's one person in my life who doesn't try to force me to talk about my feelings.

"Well, I'm going to get some food. And you're going to eat it, or I'm taking you straight to the hospital," he says after a minute of silence. I can tell he's not bluffing. Haymitch doesn't bluff.

"What did you give me?" I ask suddenly. "To fix me."

"Huh? Oh. Some vitamin pills for those of us who are too lazy to eat. And the last few sips of whiskey from a bottle I pulled out of the trash," he answers with a shrug. "Don't question it. It worked."

As he turns to leave and I drift back into sleep, I manage a, "Thanks, Haymitch." Somewhere deep down, I'm glad I'm not gone, because I know that means that Snow wins. Coin wins. Everyone who has ever wanted me dead wins. And I can't stand that.

He gives me a thumbs-up and leaves me alone in the room.

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><p>When I wake up again, it's dark out. I feel strong enough to sit up and find a cloth with bread, meat, and cheese on it, along with a note in a hasty scrawl that reads, "Eat it or get ready for hospital food."<p>

I eat it gratefully and smile at Haymitch's threat before I can help myself. The food is warm and delicious and heartening. When I'm about halfway through, I break off a piece to save for Prim.

_Oh._

Tears fill my eyes before I can take another breath. I drop the food onto the cloth and curl up in the blankets, sobbing and shaking. I find my pillow and put it next to me so it's like a small body. I hold it and squeeze my eyes shut and it's Prim. But my imagination's not good enough. She's dead. And I'm alive. How is that fair?

_Don't think like that, Katniss_, I tell myself. _Think happy thoughts._

But the permanent absence of Prim is too powerful, and I can't stop crying. I hope, wherever she is, she can't see me like this. I'm supposed to be the strong one.

And then I feel someone taking the pillow from me before I can protest. They're too strong. They put the pillow back behind my head and lie down next to me, their arm around me.

The arm around me feels familiar. It's Haymitch. This wouldn't be the first time I've broken down in front of him, so I scoot closer and weep without holding back. I wet his shirt - he doesn't seem to care at all - and shriek incoherently. Things like, "She didn't deserve to die," and, "It isn't fair."

Haymitch keeps saying, "I know, I know." Because he does know. He's the smartest person I know and he understands what it's like to have the people you love killed because of your actions.

And then I say, "It's all my fault," expecting Haymitch to respond with his usual, "I know," because he _should_ know that it's my fault. But he doesn't answer for a while; he's just stroking my unkempt hair out of my tear-stained face and keeping me wrapped tightly in his arm.

And when he does answer, he speaks in that all-knowing voice I can't argue with, amplified by his uncharacteristic sobriety. "None of this is your fault, sweetheart."

I fall asleep with his arm wrapped around me, and he doesn't leave.

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><p>In my dream, I am floating in a lake of wine. It's deep, rich, and crimson, and I'm drowning. Haymitch is at the shore of the lake, frantically drinking the wine so that I don't drown. When I wake up, I can't remember how the dream ends.<p>

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><p>Haymitch is sound asleep next to me. He looks gaunt and his face is unnaturally pale. Our heads are tilted together so that his dark, wavy hair reaches into mine. I'm feeling a thousand times better, so I decide to surprise him with some liquor as a thank you for being there for me.<p>

I stand up and the world spins for a while, but eventually, everything is still and my headache has subsided, for the most part. I use my fingers to comb through my uneven hair, which now cascades past my shoulders, some pieces even reaching my chest. After quickly pulling it into an uneven plait, I scavenge through the drawers and pull on one of Haymitch's shirts. I'm still wearing the tight jean pants I've been wearing for weeks and make a mental note to buy more clothes. I don't know what it is, but I feel a spark of life kindled in me when I think of how someone out there doesn't blame me for everything. For some reason, it's especially meaningful because Haymitch is the one who said it. Because Haymitch doesn't lie or sugarcoat or try to please anyone. He can't act. What you see is what you get. In that way, he's just like me.

So maybe, just maybe, I do deserve to live.

I ponder this as I walk to the warehouse where supplies from the trains are dumped off in. The workers give me a look when I buy two bottles of white liquor, but I have money, so they don't question it.

I walk silently in the pitch-black night, unsure of the exact time, carefully avoiding Mellark Bakery. I enter Haymitch's home from the back and find myself pinned against the wall, a cold, metal knife to my throat.

"Haymitch?" I sputter, staring at the half-asleep man with a dangerous gleam in his grey eyes.

The knife drops immediately and his facial expression relaxes. "Habit," he mutters, then says more angrily, "Where were you? I was wor-"

He stops abruptly as he sees the bottles of liquor in my arms and releases me from his grip.

"I thought I'd get something to thank you," I say, unsure as to why I'm supporting his alcohol addiction. "I... I owe you."

"I was about to call the hospital and tell them to round you up," Haymitch sneers, but I can tell he's happy. "Come on. Let's not put this stuff to waste."

He leads me to the kitchen and grabs a bottle from me, pouring its contents into two glasses. This is the first time I've been in the kitchen of his home, and it's only a bit cleaner than his old one, before Hazelle was hired to clean up his messes. There are snowflakes of shattered glass and rotting wood from spilled alcohol and the stench of spoiled food.

"You're wearing my shirt," he observes. He's not offering an opinion on the matter as much as he's just noticing.

"You're letting me drink," I say just as neutrally.

"It saved your life last time," he shoots back, and I can't argue.

Haymitch is clever. There's a reason he drinks. It has to be helpful to him somehow. Maybe it'll benefit me in the same way. It's just one drink, after all. I'm too preoccupied - with thoughts of Prim, Peeta, Haymitch, Finnick, and a long list of names that all get muddled into one and stab me in the heart - to really care or remember what happened the last time I drank.

I sample the white liquor, its concentrated stench burning my eyes. Tears fill them, but I don't mind. It's nice to get my eyes wet about something other than Prim. After one sip, I decide it would be best to just chug down the rest, so I do. Haymitch is already on his second glass and looks at me, impressed, as I finish off the glass and set it back down coolly. But I can sense him watching me warily as I pour my next glass. And my next. By my third glass, I'm trying to keep my hand steady so that I don't carelessly spill the precious liquor, but I'm shaking and the world has become slanted. Haymitch holds his hands over mine, obviously having a greater tolerance to the drink, and suggests, "Maybe that's enough, sweetheart."

But I shake my head. Everything is a blur, and that's the way I like it. I'm not thinking of anything except the bitter, ruthless liquid in front of me. I can tell by the look on Haymitch's face that his thoughts are identical to mine. All he wants right now is to bury himself in his drink, and it's taking everything in him to pry himself away from it in order to prevent me from having too much alcohol. I feel guilty for all the times I've patronized him for his addiction, because I understand why he drinks. I saw him in the Second Quarter Quell. As if that wasn't enough to forge torturous memories, Snow killed his family and girlfriend afterwards. Haymitch and I are drinking for the same reason. To drown out the pain of our losses. In the dark kitchen I can just barely make out the grimace on his face as he downs his fifth glass.

"It wasn't your fault," I blurt out without thinking.

He looks up at me and croaks, "What are you talking about?"

I'm sure he knows exactly what I'm talking about, but I tell him anyway. "Snow killed your family and your girlfriend because you outwitted them in the Arena. And you blame yourself. But you shouldn't." I exhale deeply. It took effort to string together understandable thoughts. It's a miracle that Haymitch pulls this off on an almost daily basis.

Haymitch gives me a look I can't read and gets up so abruptly his chair is knocked over.

"Go to bed. I'll take the couch," he says gruffly. He doesn't sound angry, but there's underlying emotion in his voice I can't pinpoint.

I fall asleep as soon as my throbbing head hits the pillow.


	3. Chapter 3

_Author's Note: This chapter was kind of tricky...Reviews are really helpful (hint, hint). :P_

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><p><strong>My Unintended<strong>: Chapter 3

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><p>I'm in the meadow. I'm alone.<p>

I see a girl running towards me.

My little sister.

I run forward and embrace her and kiss her and that's when she explodes and transforms into a column of fire.

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><p>"What happened?" Haymitch asks with a concerned look on his face. His prominent cheekbones are accentuated by the shadows in the dark bedroom. I'm not sure how he got here or how long he's been in here; I expected him to be in a deep, drunken slumber until noon at least. But it's early morning; the sun hasn't yet risen and the birds have only just begun chirping with the good news of a soon-arriving summer.<p>

My lips shake and I can only produce a "w" sound that fluctuates in tone. "W-We...We were-"

"Deep breaths, sweetheart," he encourages me, inching closer so that he can put a supportive arm around me.

I inhale and shut my eyes. The words pour out speedily, as I fear that if they linger in my mouth for too long, they will poison me.

"I saw Prim in the meadow and I hugged her and then she burst into flames!" I cry, and my arm is buried into his shoulder as tears stream down my cheeks.

He doesn't say much of anything; neither of us is particularly skilled with words. He whispers, "It was just a dream. Prim isn't in pain. Just remember that."

I find immense comfort in those words. She's not alive, but she's not being tortured like so many others were. My sobs slowly come to a halt. She's not in pain. My breathing evens out. Prim is in peace. I rub the tears from my eyes. Maybe that's all I ever needed someone to say to me. For some reason, the obvious fact that Prim can't be in pain never crossed my mind. Haymitch's ability to point out obvious truths, his way to say what needs to be said, makes me find hope again. Prim isn't hurting, so maybe I shouldn't be, either.

"Sorry for waking you up," I mumble into his shoulder.

"I was awake," he reassures me.

I step back and look at him. His eyes are bloodshot and tired, even more so than usual. I can see strands of grey in the sea-like waves of his thick, dark hair. "Why haven't you been sleeping, Haymitch?" I demand anxiously.

"I was...thinking about what you said," he replies haltingly. "That it wasn't my fault that everyone I loved died."

"It wasn't," I say firmly.

"But do you blame yourself for Prim's death? Finnick's? Especially now that Annie found out she's pregnant-"

"Are you trying to make me feel guilty?" I yell angrily. I apologize immediately after; I know I'm being over-emotional, but I can't help it sometimes. "Sorry."

"I'm sorry, sweetheart. Do you want to talk or should I leave you alone?" he asks cautiously. I know he feels bad about the time in District 13 when I went to talk to him and he was helplessly drunk.

"Talk," I whisper before I can even think. I don't want to be alone, but for once, I don't long for the company of just anyone who cares for me. I need Haymitch, everything that makes him, _him_. And I'm not sure why. It just feels right, and it's the only thing in my life that's felt right in a while. "Tell me about your family. Your girlfriend," I request.

Haymitch sighs and scoops me in his arms. He places me gently on the bed before wrapping a blanket on top of me and joining me, his arm steadily around me.

"My mom was the strongest woman I knew. My dad left us when I was ten, but my mom could still fend for us fine. She worked in the mines. She was one of the only women to ever work in them. Her name was Marilynn Abernathy and she was one hell of a woman," Haymitch says with a tenderness and sadness in his voice I've never heard. He shuts his eyes for a while before continuing. "My little brother, Ewen, was fourteen when Snow had him killed. He barely had a chance to live his life. He was the most innocent, kind, helpful kid I've ever met. Until Prim, maybe. They remind me of each other in a lot of ways. Sweet as sleep syrup." His sentences break up into short phrases. I've never heard him like this. He closes his eyes even longer this time as a mist forms over my own.

I can imagine a younger Haymitch, handsome and strong - or maybe just handsomer and stronger, as he's still both of those things, in a way - with glowing alabaster skin and gleaming Seam-grey eyes, with his younger boy-Prim brother and a mother who didn't emotionally shut down when her husband disappeared.

"And my girl," he says, his arm shaking behind my body, "her name was Felicity Paget. She was something." He paused for a good two minutes before adding, in a guilt-ridden voice, "Thing is, I forget her more every day. I can't remember the color of her eyes any more. Or the way her voice sounded. She died because of me and I can't even remember."

In the light of the rising sun, I can just make out the sheen of moisture on his eyes. It feels so unreal. Haymitch is crying. I snake my way closer to him so that my arm is around his midsection and my face on his shoulder.

"Hey," I say in a voice that sounds surprisingly soothing. "It's been over 25 years. You can't hate yourself for something like that."

"I don't remember much of her at all. But Snow had them all hung. I remember that. They probably spent their last moments hating me," Haymitch whispers, and I can hear the sixteen-year-old boy that never really got over what happened all those years ago.

I see so much of myself in him. The intense self-loathing. And I realize how ridiculous it is.

"They knew you couldn't do anything. They loved you," I insist.

"How do _you_ know?" he asks.

"Because," I say as if it's the most obvious thing in the world, "who couldn't love you?"

Haymitch laughs uncontrollably for a while. "Good one," he croaks, his throat dry.

"I'm serious!" I reply indignantly, but I can't help but chuckle. "You're smart and witty and supportive and-"'

"And Peeta's a horrible baker," Haymitch interrupts, sarcasm oozing from his words. Still, I can just make out a genuine smile on his thin lips in the pale light of the dawn. And that smile makes me _almost_ indifferent to the mention of Peeta.

"If I'm supposed to not feel guilty about Prim and Finnick and every other life lost in the rebellion, you can try to not feel guilty about Marilynn and Ewen and Felicity," I reason.

"Thanks, sweetheart," Haymitch says. He stares at the ceiling looking tired but significantly more at ease and I can tell I made him feel better.

Which makes me feel better.

"Now go to sleep," I order.

"Anything for the Mockingjay," he mumbles, but he's already halfway there.

As soon as I hear him begin to snore, I can sleep contentedly.


	4. Chapter 4

_Author's Note: I really, really like reviews. Sorry if it seems like I'm taking too long to get to the romance (let me know); I'm just trying to take things slowly so it can be as realistic as possible. Thank you so much for reading! I think the number of Hayniss/Haymiss/Aberdeen shippers is growing because both of my Haymitch/Katniss fics are getting a substantial amount of views! If you're reading this now, thank you! And please leave a review! xx_

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><p><strong>My Unintended<strong>: Chapter 4

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><p>The next few days pass in a similar fashion. We drink, though I never drink as much as Haymitch and yet still end up twice as drunk. We sleep, usually separately until one of us crawls into bed with the other because of a nightmare. And we talk, about anything and everything.<p>

There's something about the way he speaks. He's so sure and confident in his words, so clever. It leaves an effect on me so strong it's nearly tangible. I want to surround myself in his words. The way people can understand each other perfectly is something so incredible to me.

We speak about the rebellion. "You know why I voted with Coin about the final Hunger Games, right?" I ask him one evening as we're eating dinner. I went hunting today for the first time in months and got a couple rabbits, but tired out soon after. I can afford gourmet foods from the local stores, but for some reason, they don't taste as good as freshly caught game.

Haymitch nods between mouthfuls of meat and vegetables. "You needed Coin to trust you so that she wouldn't think for a second you'd turn on her," he replies. He read me like a book then and still does now. "That's why I voted with you. You're almost as clever as I am," he adds playfully.

"She's the one person I don't regret killing," I admit. I'm flattered by Haymitch's compliment, but I try not to let on that I am. Besides, I'm sure he can tell.

"Good. That bitch deserved everything she got," Haymitch says grudgingly, and I know he's right.

As we finish our dinner and I take the plates to the sink, I ask, "Have I been overstaying my welcome?"

It's a thought that hasn't crossed my mind before, but I just realized that I've been living with Haymitch for about a week. I'm almost completely better physically; I'm weak, but that's nothing I can't work on. My nightmares are still a problem, but I don't want to perpetually bother Haymitch with them. I won't go back to sleep syrup, but I'll sleep with a pillow-Prim next to me; maybe that'll help.

Haymitch looks surprised. "It hasn't crossed my mind," he responds after a moment of total silence. "I'm fine with whatever you want to do, sweetheart, but if you pull what you did last time, I'm dragging you right back here." His voice has a serious edge to it, and I don't doubt his words.

"I want to regain at least some form of self-sufficiency," I half-joke. "And if I leave, that means more liquor for you!"

He smiles weakly but something in him darkens. He must be scared for me. I can't honestly blame him. "I might have indicated in the past that I don't appreciate the company of others-" he begins, but I interrupt him while laughing unstoppably.

"Might have indicated?" I choke.

He glares at me jokingly and continues, "But don't hesitate to come by again if you need anything, even if it's just a drink."

I don't fret about the copious amounts of alcohol I've been consuming lately; Haymitch has a sixth sense that allows him to know when I've had more than enough, and he'll grab my glass from me and down the rest himself. I feel safe when I drink with him; I know he won't take advantage of me, and he's already seen me at my worst - and vice versa - so I know we don't judge each other. Drinking is a small vacation for me. Nothing more.

"I won't," I promise him, and after giving him a firm hug as proof of my appreciation and strength, I walk back to my house. With a pair of binoculars, I could probably still see Haymitch. And we both have phones. I don't know why I'm already thinking about a way to see him or talk to him.

As I fiddle with my keys, struggling to open the front door, I see the silhouette of a stocky young man in my peripheral vision and my breath is caught in my throat, causing me to erupt into a fit of coughs.

"Katniss?" Peeta calls, rushing over.

"Peeta," I say weakly, dropping my keys onto the ground.

He picks them up and opens the door for me. I thank him as we walk inside and sit together at the kitchen table. We both notice that the house looks remarkably empty, but Peeta's either too polite or too oblivious to make a comment about it. The air reeks of medication, Buttercup, and dead mice. Peeta tries not to notice, but eventually asks, "How have you been living here?"

"I haven't," I reveal before I can stop myself. My therapist, when I used to answer his calls, told me I have to be truthful with my feelings. It's the only thing he's ever suggested that I've actually tried.

Peeta looks confused. "Where have you been staying?"

"I got sick, but I'm better now," is all I say, and quickly change the subject. It's not exactly a lie. "How have you been?" Despite my conflicted feelings, I can't deny that I care for him deeply. He's a great man, Peeta Mellark. Haymitch once said that I could live a thousand lifetimes and still not deserve him. He's right, of course.

"I've been fine. Great. The bakery gets a lot of business nowadays," he says cheerily if not awkwardly. All of the lines in our relationship are blurred, all because of the Hunger Games.

"I know," I say with a smile, happy for him. I can see the line stretching out of the door on some days, snaking all the way down the street and out of our enclosed little neighborhood. "I'll stop by sometime. I'm sure everything's delicious."

"Anytime," Peeta says immediately. "I miss you, Katniss."

"I miss you too," I say, and it's not a lie. I just have a sinking feeling that he misses me in a different way. He misses our love, if it ever was that. I can't be sure what was an act and what wasn't, and that includes our feelings. It makes my brain hurt to think about. I'm not sure if I can make a real relationship bloom out of an act of survival. Then again, Gale told Peeta I'd choose whoever I needed to survive.

A wave of red-hot rage washes over me. Who does Gale think he is? He doesn't know me better than I know myself…Right? I get a sick feeling in my stomach that I don't really know myself all that well.

"You look upset," Peeta observes, not that much observing needs to be done. With me, what you see is what you get.

"I'm sorry. I just don't feel that well," I explain, another semi-lie.

"Well, I'll let you get some sleep, then," he says, and stands up, ready to leave. "Wait," he almost shouts as I'm about to say goodbye to him. "If it's okay," he begins in a calmer voice, "do you want to have breakfast with me tomorrow morning at the bakery?"

I do. I genuinely do. Peeta's too good of a person, and I still care about him, even if it's not in the way he'd like. "Yeah. I'd like that," I say with a smile.

Peeta's face lights up. "Great! Goodnight, Katniss. And you can always call me if you need anything."

"Goodnight. And I'll remember that," I promise as he leaves.

* * *

><p>Rejuvenated by the promising events of the day, I spend the rest of the evening cleaning up my house and showering until everything, myself included, is clean and smells of flowers. As my mind uncontrollably wanders to thoughts of Prim, I stop myself from a complete breakdown by remembering what Haymitch told me. "She's not in pain anymore," I whisper to myself as I snuggle up against my pillow-Prim and inhale the fresh scent of clean sheets. "She would be happy that I'm finally getting my life together." <em>Would be. <em>The "would" kills me. She _should_ be happy for me because she _should_ be alive right now.

I force myself to think of something else, anything else. But after a few seconds, my thoughts revert back to my sister. I can't stop thinking of Prim. And it's killing me.

I look at the clock on my phone. It's two in the morning. I got in bed at eleven. It felt like three seconds have passed since then when it's actually been three hours. I long desperately for a good night's sleep. Pillow-Prim isn't helping. I instinctively do the only thing that I'm sure will fix me.

I grab desperately at my phone, even out my breaths so it's not as obvious that I've been crying, and I call Haymitch.

My heartbeat accelerates as I hear the beeps indicating that the call is going through. What if I wake him up on a night when he's drank a particularly large amount of alcohol? Before I can think of the implications this could have, I hear Haymitch's voice on the other end.

"Hey, sweetheart. What's wrong?" he asks in a voice that sounds entirely awake.

"I can't stop thinking about her," I say, my efforts at masking my cries thrown down the drain as I break down into soft sobs. "I've tried thinking about other things but it doesn't help. I'm hugging a pillow and trying to pretend it's her but it's not working. I don't know what to do!" I'm bordering on hysteria and I'm dumping it on Haymitch to calm me down. I hate myself sometimes.

I can hear Haymitch sighing on the other end, just barely, before he continues to breathe regularly. Somehow, listening to the low tone of air entering and exiting his lungs and picturing his body shifting up and down is calming me already.

"I'd offer you a drink, but..." He hesitates.

"You don't want me to become a drunk," I finish for him. It astounds me how he's fine with destroying his own independence if it means that he has a distraction from the awful memories of the Games, but he doesn't want me to do that. Even when I was staying at his house, he'd nonchalantly keep an eye on the amount of alcohol I was ingesting. He never let it go over a certain amount; he'd then take the rest away from me and consume it rapidly. I had initially thought that he just wanted more of the stuff for himself, but I'm realizing now that perhaps that wasn't the case.

"Think of someone, of something that makes you happy. Something good. Besides her," he adds hastily, changing the subject.

The first person I think of is him. I'm not sure why. And I'm not at all sure as to why I'm crying to Haymitch like he's my therapist; the man's an intense alcoholic. Yet somehow, he makes more sense, he's more human, than anyone else I know; he understands me better than Peeta, Gale, and every other living person on the planet could ever hope to. It's just an honest fact. The way we both voted with Coin. How we communicated through care packages during the Games. The little signs he exhibits that prove that he knows me better than I know myself. Peeta once said that Haymitch and I have similar personalities. That should mean that I hate him, but I don't. I love him. So maybe I'm not so bad. Maybe there's good in me like there is in Haymitch.

"Haymitch?" I whisper.

"What is it?" he responds immediately, his voice thick with concern.

"Keep breathing," I murmur.

He doesn't question it. I'm sure he understands.

I fall into a deep and tranquil sleep to the sound of him in his purest form.


	5. Chapter 5

_Author's Note: It's kind of hard to write emotional!Haymitch because we don't get a lot of that in the books, so tips and feedback on how I'm doing are always great. And thank you all so much for your reviews. I can never have too many. :)_

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><p><strong>My Unintended<strong>: Chapter 5

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><p>I wake up the next morning with my phone still in my hand, my eyes crusty with dried tears. Snores echo through the earpiece; Haymitch is sound asleep. A happy feeling I can't quite place grows inside of me, and for a second, everything is perfect.<p>

Then, I remember all of the facts about my life and decide to distract myself by showering and cleaning until I have to meet with Peeta for breakfast at the bakery.

Cleaning is another oddly soothing activity; not only would Prim want to see that my life isn't a total mess, I feel like if mostly every other aspect of my world is going to be muddled emotional disorder, I should keep everything that I possibly can organized. As I dress myself in Haymitch's burgundy shirt, freshly washed and ironed, and an old pair of denim shorts, I can't help but admire the pearly sheen of the snow-white furniture in my home. Whoever designed this home intended for it to be kept clean, and it finally looks presentable. I wonder why my subconscious chose such a boring way to channel my energy.

The sun beats down on me as I walk to Mellark Bakery, a rustic, small shop that smells absolutely delicious. Peeta flashes his brightest grin as our eyes meet and escorts me to a small bistro table, already set for two. Porcelain plates are piled with croissants and fresh fruit, and the centerpiece of the table is a bright-yellow dandelion.

It's a sweet gesture. It really is. But I'm not ready for the relationship he's after; I'm unwilling to give him the stable, perfect love and undying commitment he yearns for and deserves.

Still, I'm not ready to break his heart. He's someone I care for deeply. I just don't know if the roots of my care run as deep as he'd like. I'd lay down my life for him in a heartbeat, because virtually no one deserves to live more than Peeta Mellark. But I wouldn't make him settle down with me. I wouldn't want that.

"Are you feeling better?" Peeta asks me timidly as we sit, delicately eating away at the pastries like they're works of art - which, I have to say, they are.

"Much better," I reassure him as I inhale the scrumptious food. "Thank you for this."

"No problem, Katniss. I missed seeing you. I didn't want to annoy you after our..." His voice trails off.

"Our fight," I finish for him with a grimace, recalling the day shortly after our return to District 12 when I ordered him to leave me alone. "Don't worry. It was all my fault. I don't want to fight with you, Peeta," I promise him. It's true. He deserves to be treated well by everyone. I recall Haymitch's words, "You know, you could live a thousand lifetimes and not deserve him." And I know they're true. They're true for almost anyone. Only Prim was as good of a person as he is. I think that's why they got along so well.

"Thanks," he says with a smile. He thanks me when I should be apologizing to him. This boy.

"So how's everything?" I ask, ending the uncomfortable pause.

"Better than ever, mostly. I've been painting and baking a lot. It's a nice distraction from the nightmares," he replies, shifting uncomfortably in his seat. He knows I've been having them, too. "What's your distraction?" he inquires.

"Cleaning," I say with a disheartened laugh. Peeta has so many beautiful talents, and I clean. I feel so inadequate. I don't mention Haymitch to him for some reason, even though he's the best distraction I have. "My house is spotless. I'll clean yours for you, if you want," I add with a shrug.

"It's okay," Peeta laughs. "At least you're doing something, you know? Here, I'll show you my paintings. They're not so morbid anymore. I think there's some you'll like."

We finish eating the last of the succulent strawberries and head upstairs. His house is modest, orderly, and homely. I sit in a squashy plaid armchair as he brings out his paintings.

I marvel over the detail in them; they're undeniably masterpieces. There's one of me giving a speech to all of Panem as the new democratic government is being established. There are paintings of our brief vacation to District 4; my doctors thought that a change of scenery would help my condition. It didn't, but the sea was beautiful nonetheless. I compliment Peeta on his astounding artwork, and soon we're talking and joking around with ease. We're just good friends having a nice time together. And that's when I realize that this is what feels right for us. Friends, and nothing more.

As I prepare to leave later in the afternoon, I think Peeta understands that all I want with him is a friendship, that any relationship I have with him will be purely platonic. And I think he's okay with that. He knows I need simplicity in my life, since I'm so complicated. And deep down, I think he has to be relieved. Our new friendship frees us of the obligations and the awkwardness of the past. We're finally moving forward. I hug Peeta tightly and we leave on good terms.

"Let me know if you need anything, Katniss. I don't care what time it is. Call me and I'll be over in a second," Peeta perpetually reminds me. I thank him graciously.

* * *

><p>But that night as I try and try to sleep and only end up having nightmares that become more and more gruesome and terrifying, as I try not to break down completely, as tears leak out from my tired eyes when I dream of Prim's wedding day that will never come, Peeta's not who I call. I don't crave his arms around me anymore. I don't know exactly what I'm thinking as I call Haymitch. All I know is that it feels right.<p>

"I'll be right over," he says, and before I can thank him through my hiccups, the line goes dead. A part of me is glad he's coming and another part of me feels so unbearably weak. But I find myself anticipating his arrival, and when he finally knocks on the door, I open it immediately and collapse into his outstretched arms. The stench of alcohol isn't as prominent on him as it usually is, but he smells familiar and safe all the same. I become a limp, crying, heaving mess in this arms and he carries me upstairs. Me, the girl on fire whose flames were put out by her own tears. How can he stand being around me? I don't understand, but I'm thankful.

He carefully positions me on the bed so that my head is nestled near his chest. The familiar wavering of his chest and sound of his heartbeat and breaths forces me to think of him and only him. I need him so badly.

I drift off into a land of many doors. Each door leads into a room. Each room is a memory, a thought, a feeling.

The first door opens to me, lying semi-unconscious in a hospital room in District 13 after Prim's death. Haymitch is over me, and his facial expression betrays a grieved, angered look I'm only just remembering. He holds my face in a quavering hand and whispers, "You'll get through this, sweetheart. I've said it before and I'll say it again - you've got spunk. You'll be fine. I'm with you. And so is she."

The room explodes in an inky, jet-black cloud, and now I'm on a completely white stretch of land that seems to go on forever. But words in an oddly formal black script begin to form all around me. "Intelligence. Understanding. Worthiness. Strength." The list goes on, and I realize that all of the words are qualities Haymitch possesses.

The words continue to form from nothingness until everything is black. I am falling now. I am dropping through black space, a vortex. And then I'm caught by something, a net. The net envelopes me and I'm wrapped safely in a toasty web that melts into me and causes a sensation inside of me I've never experienced before. I couldn't place a name on it if I tried. It's a mixture of want and need, of pure, raw bliss, of excitement and a peaceful escape.

And then my eyes open and I'm transported back to reality.

"Good morning, sunshine," a voice above me says sarcastically but with a playful air.

I look above me to see my grey eyes meet Haymitch's. His arm is around me tenderly. The bright rays of rich sunshine spilling through the wide windows in my room and his sardonic tone of voice indicate that it's not exactly morning.

"What time is it?" I groan.

"Half past noon. You were finally sleeping, though. I couldn't wake you up," he chuckles.

"I'm gonna go back to sleep," I murmur, already halfway there. "Just a few more minutes. I promise." The "few more minutes" part is a lie and Haymitch knows it. But he just nods.

"You can leave if you want," I say, but then quickly take it back. "No. Stay with me," I beg.

"I'm staying," he vows, and I'm back asleep before I can even think about my dreams.

* * *

><p>When I awaken once more, the sun is setting. I've been asleep for nearly 24 hours and not a single nightmare has plagued me. And I gasp once I realize that I'm still in Haymitch's arms.<p>

"Why did you stay?" I ask, jolting upwards into a sitting position.

"Why are you so shocked?" he asks. "I don't have anything more important to attend to."

It's true. Neither of us have anything to do, anything we ever need to do. Peeta has the bakery; that's what keeps him going. But Haymitch and I don't have jobs; we don't need them. The new mayor of District 12 insisted on giving Haymitch, Peeta, and I more than enough money to live comfortably for the rest of our lives. Then, we were shoved into a secluded estate with no need to work a day in our lives. Haymitch and I aren't exactly likable people like Peeta is, and we have no talents we can mold into profitable careers. Haymitch is no longer a mentor; the Games are over for good. He has no family and my family's gone. Haymitch and I, we're left with nothing but each other.

"Not even a bottle of alcohol?" I say with mock-disbelief.

Haymitch only laughs. I notice once again that his breath doesn't reek of liquor. I can't fathom why he hasn't been drinking. He must be too tired to walk all the way to the warehouse to pick some up. I don't dwell on this for too long, despite the fact that it's quite a curious occurrence. Haymitch practically keeps a bottle glued to his hand most of the time.

"Let's get you some breakfast. Dinner," he corrects. "I can't have you dying on me, sweetheart."

It's true. I'm all he's got, and he's all I want.

I follow him to the kitchen and we prepare some tasteless vegetable soup. Neither of us are very good cooks; I vaguely remember a time where I didn't care what I ate as long as it would keep me alive. And Haymitch, well, he didn't care what he ate as long as he had some wine to go with it. We laugh hysterically at our inability to prepare simple meals and end up devouring plain bread along with the thin, pale-green soup as the sun sets over District 12.

Haymitch gets up after we finish our meal, ready to leave, but I stop him. "Don't go, Haymitch," I plead. "Stay with me, for good. Move in with me."


	6. Chapter 6

_Author's Note: Okay, this chapter was kind of hard to write because it's unknown territory for Haymitch even though I tried really hard to keep him and Katniss in character. But let me know what you think, okay? Please? I ended up writing really vague and symbolic stuff so please tell me if it doesn't make any sense and I won't do it again. Also, let me know if there are typos and stuff because I HATE it when errors go unseen and unedited. Thank you!_

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><p><strong>My Unintended<strong>: Chapter 6

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><p>Haymitch tries to hide his surprise at my proposal, but I can see right through him. His lips curve into a genuine smile after a flicker of what looks like confusion passes across his face. He's thinking intensely about something, but I can't tell exactly what that something is. My heartbeat nearly stops with suspense as his mouth opens and he begins to speak. Words can't express how much I need Haymitch near me, always. My clinginess disgusts me, but I figure it's better to be addicted to a person than to morphling or alcohol.<p>

Alcohol.

Haymitch and I are one being.

I am the Girl on Fire. I _am_ fire; spunky, bold, unruly. Haymitch is ice; cool, biting, desolate. He is ice floating in a glass of strong liquor. Fire and ice. We are equally powerful, uncontrollable, and repulsive.

And we balance each other out perfectly. Equilibrium.

I understand now why Haymitch hasn't been drinking as much. I've changed him, somehow. I am his distraction from the Games and everything they did to him - his loneliness, his nightmares, his memories, his reasons for drinking. And he's my distraction. We've formed an entirely new type of dependency, a twisted symbiotic relationship of sorts. My longing for him is like a raging fire within me that can only be calmed by him, his icy touch.

It takes me a split-second to realize all of this before he answers, "Of course. I'm with you, Miss Girl on Fire."

I know exactly what he was contemplating before he spoke. He's figured it out too. The change in addiction. In a way, we are each others' saviors. We're too similar to not be.

I'm not considering the science of addictions right now, I can only think about him. I am fire and he is ice, but when something extremely hot is touched, it almost feels cold, and vice versa. You can't differentiate between the two sensations, the burning and freezing; all you can tell is that they're both equally potent, equally dangerous.

It doesn't make sense. Nothing makes sense to me except for him.

"Thanks, Haymitch," I whisper, and I discover that I'm holding him in my arms and he's holding me.

"My pleasure, sweetheart," he replies, his breath hot on my cheek.

* * *

><p>As it's nearing midnight, Haymitch is suckling a bottle of wine, the same one he's had for the past few hours. He doesn't seem to notice or care that he finished the contents of the bottle over an hour ago, so he grips the bottle securely in his hand and has it pressed against his lips. His other arm is wrapped around me and we're watching a stupid reality TV show, but neither of us minds what's on the screen, since we're not watching it attentively. We make jokes about how stupid the contestants are in between our scattered conversations.<p>

When the program ends, Haymitch tosses his bottle carelessly and asks, "Do you want to go to sleep now?" I can hear doubt in his voice, seeing as I just slept for almost an entire day.

"I have an idea," I say suddenly, and we both know it doesn't involve going to sleep. I grab his hand in mine to lead him outside, and I simultaneously feel a weird fluttering in the pit of my stomach. Unsure of what it could mean, I disregard it.

"Where are we going?" he inquires curiously.

"Wouldn't you like to know," I shoot back teasingly as we exit our home and dash down the deserted cobblestone street.

I lead him through a small thicket at the edge of the Victor's Village - or, as it should be called, Rebel's Refuge - and it shifts into a forest spotted with gigantic pines, leafy maples, and even a murky pond that trickles down a vast hill and disappears in the distance.

Haymitch looks confused until he sees it, too - a perfect little clearing in the center of the forest where the moon and stars shine so brightly it could nearly be daylight.

"I came here once before, but it made me feel lonely...And insignificant. It was scary for me," I elucidate despondently, but I'm not humiliated by my weaknesses around him. Haymitch knows better than anyone how terrible those feelings can be.

It's his turn to lead, and he walks me directly under the glowing rays of moon- and star-light and says, "There's no time like the present to overcome your fears," with an irresistible grin.

Before I can say anything, Haymitch grabs me in his arms, carrying me like I'm a baby, and sinks to the ground, where he sets me down next to him. We're both lying down comfortably in our usual position: my head is right over his heart, and his arm is around me firmly. Our skin shines in the night and Haymitch's bright grey eyes reflect the pearly sheen of the celestial miracles above us.

The sky is perfectly black and the stars are the complete opposite. The moon is the largest I've ever seen it; it feels as though I can almost touch it. I extend my fingertips just to make sure it's really out of my reach, and sigh when I remember it's millions of miles away.

Haymitch exhales contentedly. We lie in silence for awhile until the sky turns to a deep orange and the whole time I can only think of him. I have so many questions for him, about his past and his future.

"Are you alright?" he asks, breaking the silence.

I lift my face up towards him. "Why wouldn't I be?"

We both laugh hollowly.

"You look like you're thinking about something unpleasant," he notes.

"I'm thinking about you," I reveal without thinking.

"That was a bit harsh, don't you think?" he jokes.

"No, not like that! I was just wondering...What were you like when you were little? What did you do?" I question him. I'm not sure why I care, but I do.

Haymitch looks at me for a long time before answering. "I set things on fire and killed animals with knives and watched my wonderful father get drunk off his ass every night and beat my mother until he passed out on the floor," he answers resentfully.

I gasp in shock. "I'm so sorry, I didn't know-"

"Don't apologize. Don't. I didn't mean to tell you that. I don't know what I was thinking," he interrupts me, sounding angry only at himself.

"Your dad left when you were young, right? And your mom got better-"

He cuts me off again, more surly this time. "You don't have to do this."

"Do what?" I ask, confused.

"Act like it's not completely disgusting that I've become what my father was," he spits out, his entire body tensing.

"The thought hadn't even crossed my mind! You're nothing like him, Haymitch," I say honestly. "You don't abuse your family!"

"I wouldn't know. I don't have a family," he reminds me.

"You have me. And Peeta," I tell him. "Even Effie's grown attached to you after all those years."

He groans at the mention of her, but I can tell he feels better. "But there's one more thing I don't understand," he whispers to me as a cool breeze makes the leaves rustle and his hair brush my face. "How can I drink so much after I watched my father drink himself into oblivion every night?"

I've never heard Haymitch be so open about his drinking problem, but then again, things have changed between us. "You haven't been drinking as much lately," I say tentatively. "I'm not sure why-"

He stops me a third time. "Don't try to lie to me. It's never worked for you. You know exactly why."

I stare at him blankly, unsure as to what I should say. I'm sure I have something to do with the change in his consumption of alcohol. I'm his diversion. But I'm just as confident that he has something to do with the increasing amount of happiness in my life.

"You know precisely why I haven't been as much of a crying, helpless mess," I shoot back at him.

"Touché," he nods.

"I can't explain it," we both say in unison, then laugh at our timing.

"It's you, okay?" I practically shout, unable to contain it and eager to get the words out of me. "I don't know what it is. I think it's because…It's because we're so similar!" It sounds crazy when I say it, but I can tell by the look on Haymitch's face that he understands what I'm saying. "You get me, okay? And I need you. I really need you. So there!"

I don't know what I'm saying. Rambling. But he just looks at me and nods.

"I'm not going anywhere. I…" He stops reluctantly. He's just as unwilling to admit it as I was. "I need you, too, sweetheart."


	7. Chapter 7

_Author's Note: This weekend is Easter weekend at my church (our Easter is a week late) so I'll probably be too busy to update until around Monday or Tuesday. Until then, please keep me going with reviews! And thank you to everyone who's been reading this. It means a lot! I know this chapter is short, but I've been so busy with Holy Week and school. Forgive me and enjoy the chapter. x_

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><p><strong>My Unintended<strong>: Chapter 7

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><p>And that's when it happens.<p>

I'm not sure what, exactly. But hearing that our relationship was a two-way dependency, confirming my suspicions - my hopes - that Haymitch needs me just as much as I need him, changes something between us. I look up at him, eyes wide, awed that he confessed to his dependency on me and how it helps stave off his addiction to alcohol. I ponder which one is more destructive for just a second before all I can seem to think about is him, in front of me, more exposed than ever. I see him as the drunken mess that he used to be. I see the mentor who tested me, who made me stronger, who kept me alive. I see the intelligent man who always seems to know exactly what I'm thinking. I see the arms that comfort me. I see his Seam-grey eyes; not only are they identical to mine in color, they just happen to see the world the same way as well.

I suddenly realize that I've inched even closer to him and tilted my face so that his is only inches from mine. I understand what I want. It's him, and I need more. His eyes don't budge from mine, but my eyelids flutter as my heartbeat rises and heats up my entire body. I'm sure he can feel it, but he remains still. The thoughts racing through my head become illegible, intangible, irrelevant. I've given up on reasoning; this is how it's supposed to be. Him and me. I can feel it radiating outwards from within me, creating a thick aura of tension and suspense.

I can pinpoint the exact second he's made up his mind that I'm what he wants as well, in a different way than before. His eyes shift their focus to my lips and he shuts his eyes slowly. It feels as though I've been waiting forever, as though my chest is about to burst, when he finally closes the gap between us.

His lips are smooth and warm against mine, and I might've been able to taste the remnants of white wine had the sensation of his mouth maneuvering over mine not taken over completely. But all I can feel is an intense energy that can only come from two powerhouses colliding. I am completely consumed, enthralled, spellbound.

He grips my waist with his arms as I slant my head to deepen our kiss; all I want is him. He responds just as fervently. I've lost all perception of time and space. We might as well be in our own world, our own universe. It feels as though we already are.

And then we pull apart, and we're panting and gasping for air and laughing and falling into each other's arms and watch the sun rise over the clearing in the forest, our spot.

* * *

><p>I wake up in his arms, swaddled in a mess of sheets and blankets. We're back at home, and I have no idea how we got here. It's odd, saying the word "home" and actually meaning it. I was so used to feeling alone and isolated in a building that was only a house to me, never a home. With him here, it's more homely than any place I've ever lived. Almost. There's still a young girl noticeably absent.<p>

He's asleep. I glance out the windows without moving too much; I feel so secure next to him. The iridescent patterns of dancing sunlight on the glass indicate that it's mid-morning or early afternoon. The summer sun is at its peak. I sigh contentedly as I recall the events of last night, this morning. I'm so full of bliss I'm sure it has to be a dream.

As I shut my eyes and see only him, I feel the familiar throbbing pang of guilt in my chest.

_Prim._

How can I be here, enjoying life, when Prim isn't?

Selfish. I'm so selfish.

_Remember what Haymitch said._

I try to recall him telling me that it's not my fault. I vaguely keep in mind the fact that I think Haymitch deserves to live despite being the cause of the murders of his loved ones. How different is his situation from mine? This comforts me some, so I repeat his words that assured me I was not to blame for Prim's death over and over again until I calm down and don't hate myself with such a burning passion.

"Prim," I whisper, squeezing my eyes shut. "Prim, if you can hear me or see me, anywhere," I begin, even though such a notion is ridiculous, "just know that I love you and I'm sorry. I'm so, so sorry." Tears stream down from my eyes and I just continue saying, "I'm sorry, I'm sorry," as I shove my head into a pillow and Haymitch snores. These are a different type of tears, though. They're tears that mourn Prim's absence and not tears of self-loathing. It's a nice change, but still undeniably awful.

His snoring stops and I wonder for a moment if he's still asleep as I continue to cry into my pillow, trying desperately to not disturb him. But then I feel a weight shift in the bed and Haymitch is pulling me upwards and into his arms so that my back is pressed against his stomach. He speaks words that I need to hear from him and only him.

"Prim would want you to be happy," he says as he pats and rubs my back gently. "Prim would want you to be happy," he repeats.

My breathing evens out and I wipe my tears away with a shaking hand which Haymitch grabs firmly to steady.

"Thanks, Haymitch," I say, smiling weakly.

He plants a quick kiss on my cheek before releasing me from his grasp. "Let's go make some breakfast, sweetheart."

"Should we risk it? We might burn down the kitchen," I remind him.

"We'll take our chances. It wouldn't be the first time us Tributes live life on the edge," he replies with a smirk.

We both erupt into fits of laughter as we descend into the kitchen and try to figure out how to make pancakes and scrambled eggs.


	8. Chapter 8

_Author's Note: This chapter is really short. I'm sorry. I've been so busy! I promise I'll make the next chapter a good, solid length, but it might take me longer to update. Please don't kill me! Burn down my school!_

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><p><strong>My Unintended<strong>: Chapter 8

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><p>I've never been a likeable person.<p>

For most of my life, that hasn't bothered me. It always seemed pointless to me. Girls who would cover themselves in make-up and don flirtatious personalities in order to appear more appealing just disgusted me. In my eyes, the way you are is the way you're supposed to be. I don't bother with their popularity contests. There are more important things.

But there was one time in my life when I wanted so badly to be accepted. I was just nine years old, and I came home from school crying into my father's arms and asking him why no one wanted to be friends with me after I'd asked them and tried my hardest to look and act in an appealing manner. The words my father spoke have stayed with me permanently and are important now more than ever.

"Katniss," he said in that wise voice of his that echoes through my memory, "the only relationships that work are the ones that happen without you trying to make them happen. You just realize that you love someone because that's just how it is, how it has to be. That's how it was like with me and your mother. You don't try to love someone. You stumble upon someone you can't help but love."

Haymitch pops into my mind immediately as I remember my father's words. He's one of the only people currently in my life that I haven't been forced to care for and build a relationship with. Greasy Sae likely gets paid to try to feed me soup every now and then. Peeta was forced into being my boyfriend for the Games. My therapist is another person who was required to be in my life because of their career. Haymitch finished being my mentor long ago. In fact, he never had to care about me as much as he did. Some mentors in the past have been awful, knowing their Tributes stood no chance. I'm fairly certain Haymitch was like that until Peeta and I came along.

"What changed?" I whispered to myself, saturated in deep thought.

"What'd you say?" Haymitch asked, looking up from his half-filled glass of cheap, diluted wine. He hasn't been guzzling it down; he's been watching it, testing himself, and taking the occasional sip.

"Oh. Nothing," I quickly cover. There's no easy way to ask a man you love if he let kids die because he knew they stood no chance, and then ask why he changed for you.

"C'mon, tell me," he insists, his attention completely diverted from the wine.

I decide its best to keep it that way and attempt to ease into my question, fumbling over my words as I go. "Well…You were a mentor for a long time," I begin. He nods, a trace of an amused smile on his face. "And you knew a lot of Tributes. And they always lost. So what I'm trying to say is-"

"Did I give up on them? Let them die?" he interrupts, realizing what I've been building up to. He doesn't look angry at me; he looks upset with himself. "After my time in the Games, I wanted so badly to help the Tributes in any way I could while simultaneously binging on alcohol to block out everything about the world around me. I messed up. I got frustrated so easily with the Tributes, because they just weren't as _clever_ as I was. I was a self-righteous asshole. Some would say I still am."

"But what changed? You tried so hard to keep Peeta and me alive," I remind him.

"You came into my life, sweetheart. Screaming, 'I volunteer!'" he recalls. "I knew as soon as I saw you that you stood a chance. It reawakened something inside of me, something telling me that I couldn't just ignore this. You've got spunk, Katniss, and you make a greater impact than you've ever known."

"I'd like to think that you tried to save Peeta, too," I mumble, though I'm thoroughly flattered by his words. My blush is so fierce I swear it nearly lights up the dim room.

"I'd like to think you give yourself the credit for doing the saving. That was all you," he replies.

"Hardly," I scoff. It's the truth. The combined efforts of so many are what kept me alive. Including Haymitch being clever enough to communicate with me through the sponsor gifts.

"Listen, you're one hell of a girl. There's no denying that. You're insanely difficult to manage, but the smartest people always are," he says with a knowing grin.

He pours out the remainder of the wine and goes to bed sober.


	9. Chapter 9

_Author's Note: SO sorry for taking so long to update. I've been busy with school. But I tried to make this chapter a good, longer one, because I probably won't be able to update again for another week or so. Until then, will you please leave me lots of reviews? And check out my other stories? ^_^_

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><p><strong>My Unintended<strong>: Chapter 9

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><p>Summer is in full swing. The weather is spectacular, and I spend most days out hunting. It's nice to know that there's still one thing I find total joy in, and one thing that makes me feel self-sufficient. I don't like being too dependent on anyone.<p>

I feel almost _normal_. It's a word I never thought I would use to describe my life, ever since I volunteered for the Games. But this is a different kind of normal. It's a new kind. It's normal in the sense that every morning I wake up knowing that I'm not alone. Haymitch will be snoring next to me. I'll get up and go hunting and scavenging, bringing back meat and fruits in time for breakfast. Haymitch thanks me and eats and washes the fresh food down with some red wine. He's usually not drunk, but he does have withdrawal symptoms to take into consideration. We'll talk for a bit, and sometimes we go for walks. Haymitch likes taking me to a nearby pond, and always brings stale bread for the geese. I'm not sure why he's drawn to them, but it gives him something to do.

Later in the day, I'll go into town and talk to Greasy Sae, or I'll go visit Peeta. He's seeing Delly Cartwright, I think, who's blossomed into a decent young lady. We talk over cheese buns. He doesn't know I've been living with Haymitch, and I'm not going to tell him. I'm not sure why. He would assume the worst. He'd think that Haymitch and I were a couple or something like that. _In love_.

I wonder for a moment how far off those accusations would be. We aren't exactly platonic. We've kissed. A lot. But it's not like we intend to. The urges creep up on me. On him. I'll be lying in bed crying about a bad dream and instead of just hugging me, he'll run his lips into mine. Or he'll be a little bit too rowdy and destructive after a bout of particularly bad withdrawal symptoms and I'll step on my tip toes and tickle my lips with his to calm him down. We don't think about it and we certainly don't talk about it. My relationship with him is the closest relationship I have in my life, and I don't even know how to define it.

I almost laugh out loud at the thought of Haymitch and me discussing romantic feelings for each other. We can talk about how we care for each other, sure. We can talk about nearly anything, but I can't imagine professing a deep and undying love for him. It just doesn't seem fathomable. We read each other so well, yet I can't imagine what he'd be like head over heels in love. He's seen me act it with Peeta, but we all know I'm an awful actress.

Suddenly, I'm curious at the thought of what Haymitch would be like if he were in love. And what kind of girl he'd fall in love with. Would she be soft and girly? Witty and clever? What would she look like?

I feel something unpleasant stir inside of me. It's awhile before I realize that the repulsive sensation is a lot like jealousy. I shake my head with confusion as I return to our home.

The windows are wide open and the curtains pulled in an attempt to air out the humid, burning-hot home. My hair is long enough to be tied back in a respectable plait, and a sigh of bliss escapes my lips each time the summer breeze runs through the room and hits the back of my neck. I stretch out onto the couch and tear off my button-down, leaving me wearing only a sheer camisole tucked into torn shorts. I doze off in the afternoon heat.

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><p>It's Haymitch who wakes me, of course. I'm struggling to remember what day it is and where I am - typical grogginess - but still find the energy to shove Haymitch off of me, chastising him for waking me up.<p>

"It's so early," I groan, wiping off sweat from my forehead.

"It's dinnertime," Haymitch rolls his eyes. "I have some whiskey if you need help waking up, though," he offers. I just raise an eyebrow. His drinking situation has improved, but the way he automatically jumps to alcohol as a solution for all of life's problems is almost pathetic.

I'm immediately angry at myself for blaming him for his alcohol dependency when I remember how dependent I am on him. Most nights I can sleep fine, but there are some nightmares that never fail in torturing me over and over again. I know Haymitch has had his fair share, too, because many nights we end up shaking in each other's arms. I need him, and I go to him as a solution for most of my life problems. Haymitch's solutions are me and alcohol. I'm almost flattered that he holds me in such high esteem - equal to his precious liquor!

"I've got some rabbit," I inform him after yawning deeply. "It's in the fridge. But I'm too tired to skin it, since you didn't let me sleep," I jab at him playfully.

"Fine. I'll skin it, and eat it all. You can get the scraps if you want," he says in a tone that makes me doubt he's joking. I jump to my feet and we race to the kitchen. If there's one person who can keep me on my toes, it's him.

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><p>After a scrumptious dinner of rabbit and potatoes, we're sitting in front of the TV. We're not watching as much as we're waiting for a breeze to pass through the gigantic window adjacent to it. Despite the heat, my head is leaning into his and our bodies are pressed together.<p>

"Haymitch," I mumble, too exhausted to speak clearly.

"What is it, sweetheart?" he replies, pressing random buttons on the TV remote control and flipping through channels lazily.

"If you could have any girl in the world," I begin, unable to contain the question that's been pestering me all day, "who would you have?"

"Any girl?" he inquires, licking his lips jokingly.

I elbow his ribcage and nod.

"Any girl in all of Panem," he repeats.

"In all of the world. You can make her up," I say, but my voice weakens. I don't want Haymitch to make her up, I realize. I want him to say _me_.

"This is really tough. There are so many babes out there I can't even choose," he says. "Effie, maybe, if she wasn't so annoying. Or maybe another one of the Capitol chicks-"

"Are you insane?" I shoot up, pulling away from him angrily. "Are you _serious_?" I can't help the volume of my voice, and I don't care that the windows are open.

He gets up and traps me in his arms. I try to pull away.

"You're such a pig," I hiss furiously. "You just want a Capitol woman because they're rich and stupid and they'd let you do anything to them because you're a Victor-"

"I'm kidding, sweetheart, I'm kidding!" he insists as I realize I've got my hand bunched in a fist. "If I could have any girl in the world, I'd have you. Damn, if I had any idea you'd get that angry-"

But it's my turn to interrupt him now. I uncurl my fist and pull his face to mine. Before either of us can say anything more, I'm kissing him again. This time, I meant to. Our lips deliberately cling together and his tongue meets mine hungrily. His warm hands press against my chest and infinite energy passes through us. I feel like I'm the only girl in the entire world, and he's the only man. It's just us, and that's all that matters.

Until I hear a high-pitched shriek, and an all-too-familiar voice shouting, "Katniss? Haymitch?"

I force myself away from Haymitch as fast as I possibly can, and I can feel the whiplash as I turn around and nearly double over, because Delly and Peeta are outside, staring at us through the open window, jaws essentially unhinged.


	10. Chapter 10

_Author's Note: I'll try to update more frequently but I'm still very busy with school! Thanks for the reviews though, keep them coming. :) x_**  
><strong>

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><p><strong>My Unintended<strong>: Chapter 10

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><p>Some people say that when you're dying, you'll see your life flash before your eyes. You'll relive every moment, from the happiest to the most painful. And then you'll die.<p>

It's like that when Peeta and Delly catch Haymitch and I in an _uncomfortably close_ position for a mentor and his Tribute. I can see the spectrum of emotion working its way across his face, and I can tell that he isn't exactly over me, not how I thought he'd be. I see the boy throwing me the bread, protecting me in the Arena, proposing to me on live television, strangling me because he was hi-jacked…

Of course, I didn't want him to find out about Haymitch and I, not like this. Not with his hands on my chest and my tongue in his mouth. I can see the shock and disbelief first. It shifts into sadness and finally into uncharacteristic anger. It's like part of hi-jacked Peeta emerges, but it's _not_ hi-jacked Peeta - it's just Peeta, livid and betrayed. All I can do is stand as shocked as a deer caught in headlights while Haymitch clutches his head in his hands and Delly uncomfortably twirls her long yellow braid around her finger, awkwardly out of place amongst the other three of us. I try to prepare myself for a verbal beating that I more than deserve.

"How could you do this?" Peeta whispers, beyond upset, but it's not me he's looking at. "Haymitch, how could you take advantage of Katniss like that? You know she's been vulnerable ever since…" His voice trails off, and I'm even more shocked, if possible.

Haymitch fixates on Peeta with a steely gaze but says nothing. His dark, tousled curls mask the look in his eyes, but I can almost feel the pain and guilt.

"It's not his-" I start, but Peeta cuts me off before I can slip out the words he knows I'm going to say.

"It is his fault, Katniss. Don't defend him for taking advantage of you. Is he drunk? Did he get you drunk?" Peeta asks anxiously, stepping away from Delly and hopping into the wide window so that the three of us are in dangerously close proximity of each other.

"No!" I shout. "Who do you think I am, Peeta? I was talking to you earlier today. You know I'm fine. I can make my own decisions."

Peeta's quiet, his blue eyes surveying the situation. Two people have obviously been living here for quite a while.

"So when were you going to tell me?" he says, trying to sound emotionless. But I can hear the hurt, and it's killing me.

"When were you going to tell me about Delly?" I shoot back without thinking. Oh, no. I'm messing everything up. I always do. Delly, a perfectly nice girl, tears up from outside the window.

"That's different. You know it is. He's…He was our _mentor_," Peeta stresses. "And now you're his _girlfriend_?"

I'm at a loss for words. I'm not his girlfriend. Am I? What am I to Haymitch? The only girl in the world he wants? The mentally unstable girl he was forced to take care of that became something more to him? Or just the Tribute he mentored? My thoughts are overloading me and I can't think clearly.

Haymitch cuts in, detecting the confusion, anger, misery, and self-loathing plastered on my visage. "Peeta, I'm sorry," he says solemnly. "You weren't supposed to find out like this."

"Was I supposed to find out at all? How long were you guys going to keep this a secret from me?" Peeta questions us, now sounding more hurt than angry. "I thought we could trust each other, after all we've been through."

"I'm sorry," Haymitch repeats. He's almost never sorry. Peeta has to know that this is genuine.

Apparently, he doesn't. Because in an extremely abnormal maneuver, Peeta Mellark of all people raises his fist and thrusts it in the direction of Haymitch's jaw. Haymitch, of course, is quicker and cleverer. I watch in disgust as he expertly dodges the blow so that Peeta's fist slams into the wall with a resounding crack.

"Enough!" I scream. "You guys can't argue. You just can't. This is all my fault. If you need someone to be mad at, be mad at me. Come on, Peeta. Punch me!"

Delly nearly faints and Haymitch staggers to his feet, runs in front of me, and grabs me in his arms. Peeta shrinks back, finally coming to his senses, and clutches his throbbing fingers in retreat.

"That's what I thought," I say more evenly. "Peeta, let me fix your hand. I have some splints in the bathroom."

"I don't want your-" he begins, but this evening is full of interruptions.

"I didn't ask," I growl, and pull him towards the bathroom. "Haymitch, give Delly some brandy to calm her down."

He's on it right away. No one's questioning me, not when I'm in survival mode, though I can see Peeta's expression flicker with disgust at the mention of alcohol.

In the bathroom, I find some metal splints and gauze and try my best to tie them up over his fingers evenly. Then, I find an ice pack, wrap it in a thin cloth, and hold it over his swollen hand while he refuses to make eye contact with me.

We sit in a thick, awful silence until I say, "I'm really sorry, Peeta."

He doesn't speak, but nods.

"I didn't think you'd mind, really," I continue cautiously. "I just didn't want to say anything because - well - our history. I thought it wasn't something we should talk about. Like how you never told me you were seeing Delly, not explicitly. I just knew. But we were still really good friends. And I still want to be friends with you. I can understand if you don't want to be. Hear me out, though. I really care about you. So does Haymitch. I'm not sure how this happened, but we still firmly believe that you're too good a person for the both of us. Please, please find it in your heart to tolerate us. To be the amazing friend to us you always have been."

"I'm sorry, Katniss," Peeta says shakily, "I don't think I can. He's our mentor. He's more than twenty years older than you and he's an alcoholic. This can't be good for you. It just can't. And I can't let it go on."

Now, I'm angry. He can't control my life like this. "Do you think I'm incapable of handling myself?" I nearly shout. "Do you think I'm too weak? Do you think I'd ever let him _take advantage_ of me?"

"You're hurting, Katniss, and you're not thinking clearly. Have you been talking to your doctor?" he asks, his tone more concerned.

"So that's it," I say roughly. "You think I'm crazy."

"No, Katniss!" Peeta insists. "I think you're making a mistake. You need to let me help you. Please." He sounds desperate and scared, but I'm too mad to give a damn.

"I'm perfectly capable of making my own decisions. I would be crazy right now if it weren't for Haymitch! Can't you see that living with him these past few months has helped me? All of the times I visit you at the bakery I've been happy and almost back to normal, and it's because of him," I explain heatedly and impatiently.

"I could've been the one to help you," he whispers dejectedly.

"You were once," I reply coldly. "But people change."

He gets up and storms out, but not before he swears, "I'm not going to let this go on."


	11. Chapter 11

_Author's Note: I found another Haymitch/Katniss story that's copied a lot of my story, and it's really disheartening. I have the entire plot of this story planned out and it sucks to see someone copy parts of it. I'm unsure if I should keep writing because I feel like it's just going to be copied…Let me know what you guys think. :(_

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><p><strong>My Unintended<strong>: Chapter 11

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><p>I stand, frozen, in the bathroom while I hear Peeta say wrathfully, "Come on, Delly, let's get out of here."<p>

I can't move, and I can't think of anything besides how I've ruined my relationship with one of my only friends. I think at some point Haymitch carried me to bed, because the next thing I know, I'm lying down on a squashy mattress staring blankly at the chipped paint on the ceiling. I know I haven't been sleeping, because I've been paying attention to the depth of the shadows dancing around the room as the sun made its ascent.

"This is my fault," Haymitch says soberly.

"No," I say immediately. "No."

"Listen, I doubt he's going to do anything to…to stop this. That's insane. What can he do? You're eighteen," Haymitch says. "I just wish he'd taken the news better."

"How could he have?" I cry hysterically. "He was - he _is_ - in love with me, and I have no idea why!" I squeeze my eyes shut and try not to think of anything, especially how much I hate myself right now.

"How could he not? Sweetheart, I'm sorry he was pissed off, but anyone with eyes could see he's been in love with you since day one. You made your choice a long, long time ago. He needs to accept that," Haymitch says, putting a comforting arm around me.

A warmth blooms inside of me, and I snuggle closer to him. "He'll come around," I say uncertainly, but it's really just a desperate hope. "You always know what to say," I add.

"The truth is funny that way," Haymitch shrugs. "Let's go make lunch."

"Lunch?" I gasp, my eyes going wide. "How long have I been lying here?" I'm so helpless. It frustrates me, but I try not to dwell on it.

"A while," Haymitch says hesitantly. "But I know what you're thinking. Don't you dare convince yourself that you're weak. You had a lot to consider after what happened last night."

"Consider?" I ask, confused.

Haymitch's eyes flicker away from mine. "Peeta's a lot better for you than I am. He's young, devoted, and a hell of a baker. We all know he could get any girl in Panem, but he wants you," Haymitch says, sounding ever-so-slightly crestfallen. "Maybe-"

"Are you trying to get rid of me?" I retort, half-joking.

"I don't think I could," Haymitch admits, and I can't help but press my lips onto his as a flame ignites in my center. I throw myself on top of him and he grabs my waist firmly, responding fervently.

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><p>We eat lunch in peace, though our windows and curtains are now permanently closed. After I finish a chicken salad and nearly half a loaf of bread, I hear the phone ringing. It's an odd, shrill noise, unfamiliar because I hardly ever receive calls. Haymitch gives me an odd look, and I nervously grab the wireless phone and timidly ask, "Hello, who's this?"<p>

"Katniss Everdeen!" my mother screeches from the other end.

"Mother?" I ask. I'm in disbelief. The word "mother" sounds out of place in my life. My voice sounds disoriented and stunned. I feel a rage bubbling within me, angry that my mother ignored me for so long. What could she possibly want with me now?

"Katniss, how could you?" she admonishes me. "He was your mentor! He's over forty years old! He could be your father!"

Something inside of me snaps.

"What did Peeta tell you?" I growl. "What did he tell you?"

She can hear the dangerous edge in my voice, and from her reluctance to respond, I know she's thinking of all of the people I've killed, all that I'm capable of, and how insane I really am.

"Don't test me, mother. Answer me and Peeta stays alive," I test her. I'm lying through my teeth; I'd never hurt Peeta, even if he's singlehandedly ruining my life by exposing my relationship with Haymitch. But I'm too angry to think rationally.

I can hear my mother gulp and Haymitch eyes me, his face white. But I can see a sort of pride in his eyes at my threat, my ability to manipulate.

"He told me you were in a romantic relationship with Haymitch!" my mother squeals. "Stop it, now! I know things have been hard for you, Katniss-"

"Oh, shut your mouth. You don't get a say in my life. You left me when I needed it the most. You're pathetic," I spit furiously.

My mom sounds seconds away from tears, but I don't care. "Katniss, you're not thinking-"

"Were you thinking when you left me and Prim to starve? You don't even know me, _Bonnibel_," I say coldly. "Stay out of my business."

She doesn't speak. I hang up and throw the phone across the room.

Haymitch makes no move to pick it up and wipes a tear from the corner of my eye. I had no idea one had formed.

I hold his hand to my face as I left my body shake with hollow sobs.

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><p>The rest of the evening is spent on the couch. Haymitch absentmindedly plays with my hair and sips some watered-down wine to stave off withdrawal symptoms while I flip through channels on the television.<p>

"This is all junk," I complain.

"It's better than the Games," Haymitch reminds me.

"Oh, yeah."

I doze off in his comforting words and the familiar feel of his fingers caressing me.

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><p>"Katniss! Katniss, wake up," I hear a voice above me saying desperately. I can see flashing lights and the sound of what might be hail - a loud pattering on the windows that causes the gigantic glass squares to quaver. His voice is barely audible over all of the screaming I can hear outside.<p>

"What's going on?" I get up, my hazy mind slowly switching to survival mode. I instinctively grab at my back for an arrow before I remember that I don't own a bow or arrows anymore. "Haymitch, what's going on?" I can hear incoherent yells more loudly now. Whatever's coming for us is getting closer.

"Watch the TV. Quick, we don't have much time!" he says, trying to remain calm in a desperate situation. I can't fathom what it could be until I finally wake up enough to focus on the screen.

There's my mother, Peeta, and Delly - only they're being interviewed, and the title of the story is "The Girl on Fire, Gone Insane?"

My breath is caught in my throat and Haymitch keeps his arm around me as the interview's being recapped. It had obviously aired before, and caused some sort of riot.

"We already knew she had been treated professionally for her instability, but we were so sure she was healing," Delly says despondently.

"This isn't like her at all. She's being used. She's definitely not thinking clearly," Peeta insists, and my mother nods vigorously.

"She needs help!" my mom begs.

I'm seeing red. I really am.

I can't think. I can't speak. I can't breathe. I can't hear Haymitch, though he's likely devising a plan to get us out of this. I can only feel my life falling apart for the millionth time since the Games became implicated into it.

And as I look over to the window, it's clear that the silhouettes of angry citizens trying to "save me" from Haymitch's supposedly evil clutches are just growing larger.

_Tick, tock._


	12. Chapter 12

_Author's Note: Thank you so much to all of my readers. You guys are great. I think I'm going to continue with this story, at least for the foreseeable future. Please keep reviewing! :)_

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><p><strong>My Unintended<strong>: Chapter 12

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><p>If there's one thing that both Haymitch and I have mastered over the years, it's keeping a cool head in a crisis situation. I thought my days of high-profile media coverage and outrageous scandals were over, but Peeta, Delly, and my mother have cruelly reopened that once-healing scar. Haymitch and I need to act, and act quickly. I fear that I'll be sent to an insane asylum if the mob gets to me, but that fear is nothing compared to the sick hunch I have that much, much worse will be done to Haymitch. I can't let that happen, not after all he's done for me.<p>

"Get some money, food, water, clothes, and whatever weapons you can find - knives, guns, anything - and meet me in the storage room as soon as possible," I order him, and he's on it without a second thought. It's weird being the one to tell him what to do. But I know what I'm doing.

As I dash towards the basement where the storage room is located, I can hear the house shuddering under the force of the people. I can't even think about how much of an absolute nightmare this is. All I know is that there's a huge pipe somewhere in the storage room that leads to a waste dump a couple miles away. It's newly built; a man in a uniform came to install it just weeks ago, which is how I know it exists in the first place. Escaping through a waste pipe won't be pretty, but it's our only chance.

I kick down the wooden door fiercely. It always gets stuck, and I'm running short on time. The walls of the house are only so resistant to an angry mob. I scan the dank room frantically, but the air is murky and malodorous. Next to some sort of spigot and a metal toolbox, I spot what appears to be a circular trap-door.

"This is it!" I exclaim, relieved. I struggle to pry back the heavy door; the diameter of it has to be at least three feet, thankfully enough to crawl through.

I can hear Haymitch's nimble footsteps stealthily approach me without being heard or seen by the mob, and within minutes, he's by my side and helps me finally completely push open the trap-door.

"I knew you'd find a way to get us out of this," he says, sounding proud and apologetic. He embraces me tightly.

"I know you think this is your fault," I breathe, my lips just brushing his ear, "but-"

"It is my fault," he interrupts me, a tone of finality in his voice. "But we need to get out of here either way. Let's go, sweetheart. Ladies first?"

Leading the way _would_ give me an advantage. If the mob found our escape route, Haymitch would block me. I want, I _need_ him to be safe, but there's no use in arguing with him right now. It would just waste the time we need so badly. I crawl into the pipe and drag the front of my shirt up over my nose. But it's no use. The stench is awful.

I try to distract myself from the horrendous odor and slippery metal. The light from the storage room is fading as we move further and further through the tunnel. I begin to panic; what if we get lost in the pitch-black tunnels?

"Don't worry," Haymitch reads my mind, his voice muffled through his shirt. "I brought a flashlight. I'll hold it up for you."

I open my mouth to thank him, but close it before sound can escape. The air is damp and sour, and I want to breathe in as little as possible. I'm moving as quickly as I can, but it's not quick enough. The light Haymitch is pointing ahead of me is dim, but better than nothing. It feels as though we've been crawling through the pipe for ages, but I doubt we've gone more than half a mile. My knees are sore and my palms are coated with grime and callused.

There's a sharp right turn ahead, and I signal to Haymitch with my hands. Rats scuttle alongside me and I feel my stomach twist and knot. Finally, we approach the turn. Hopefully, we're nearing the end. I'm not sure if the light in the tunnel is growing brighter or if it's my mind playing tricks on me. But I so desperately want this to be the end, so I use up my reserves of energy to break into a sprint-crawl.

As soon as I realize what lies beyond the turning point, it's too late; I'm in freefall.

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><p>I wake up groaning deliriously. My flesh is wet and warm with what I fear is blood. Everything is blurred, and as I turn my head in an attempt to survey the situation, I'm reminded of TV clips being re-winded and slowed down and fast-forwarded repeatedly, so much so that I feel nauseated. I realize that I've fallen into the waste dump. It's empty, except for some sort of green slime my legs are covered in. At first, I'm thankful for this, but then I realize that the waste would've softened my fall. The pipe emptied me into a sort of inverted concrete dome.<p>

"Hay- Haym-" I splutter, but I can't help but break into a fit of coughs. My chest and back are sore and bruised, and I try not to faint when I draw my fingers back from my mouth to find them tinged with red as well.

I tear some fabric from the bottom of my shirt and wipe myself off, pressing down the shredded cloth to clot the open wounds on my hands. My vision begins to even out, and I manage to get to my feet. I take shaky steps towards the ladder. Haymitch and I need to get out of here, and fast.

_Haymitch_. I still haven't found him.

I spin around quickly and see him behind me, a bloody heap on the ground. The fall had been nearly two stories. "Haymitch, please be okay. You have to be okay," I beg, grabbing him and propping him up. I tear more fabric off from both of our clothes, wipe him down, and create a tourniquet for his forearms, which have been cut up more than anything. His ankle is bent at a weird angle, and I know better than to try to snap it back into place, so I tie it with some fabric instead. I brush his sweat- and slime-soaked hair out of his face and pat his cheeks gently. "Please, wake up. We have to go."

His eyes open slowly. "Sweetheart?" he croaks, a smile only just appearing on his face despite the circumstances. My heart inadvertently does a somersault. I really _am_ in love. I shake my head quickly, forcing myself to focus.

"We need to climb up that ladder, see?" I instruct calmly, pointing to the two-story ladder a few feet to the left of us. "There are a bunch of freight trains up there. We'll hop onto one that's going to another district and find a place to hide out in."

"Sounds like a plan," Haymitch agrees, and tries to get up. But he winces in pain and topples over as soon as he puts weight on his ankle.

"Here, lean on me," I order more than offer, helping him up and wrapping his arm around me. We hobble towards the ladder and I tell him to go first. That way, if he starts to fall, I might be able to push him back up. He understands that I'm risking my own safety to help him and sighs, a look of self-loathing on his visage.

He begins to climb, pushing all of his weight onto his upper body, and we're making pretty good time for our condition. I'm dizzy and tired and battered almost as much as he is, but, thankfully, we make our way out of the bowl and onto steady land in only a few minutes.

The train station is deserted save the crate-lifters, conductors, and drifters. These aren't trains used to transport people; they transport goods throughout Panem. We hide behind a thick stone column to find out what our options are. I have to stifle a sick laugh; I'm reminded of the Games, and how I had to run and hide for my life. One glance at the dark expression on Haymitch's face, and I know he's thinking of the same thing.

"Where's this one going, Rob?" we overhear a man's voice from the other side of a particularly large coal-carrying train.

"District 4. We should make it there in a couple days," the conductor informs him. "We're leaving now. I just finished checking in."

Haymitch and I look at each other and pull open the door to one of the compartments on the train as silently as possible. We jump in and collapse into the small, dark, and dusty area. The coal is uncomfortable and unhealthy to breathe in, but we need to leave District 12 as soon as possible.

We simultaneously sigh with relief as the train pulls away, speeding towards the west coast of Panem.


	13. Chapter 13

_Author's Note: Sorry for taking so long to update! I do intend on continuing this story; I've just been busy with school, and I leave for vacation soon, so it might be a while between updates. Please keep reviewing, though, it keeps me going. x_

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><p><strong>My Unintended<strong>: Chapter 13

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><p>When I wake up, it takes me a minute to remember where I am and what's going on.<p>

_Peeta. Delly. Mother. Riots. Tunnel. Train…_

I'm sore all over; I can barely move. Pain stabs through my back as I attempt to prop myself up. The cuts on my arms and legs have been clotted with dry blood and coal dust. "How long have I been out?" I whisper to no one in particular; Haymitch is still out cold next to me. I wince as I notice his swollen ankle and raw forearms, but there isn't much I can do. I can hardly move myself, and there aren't many supplies on this train.

I recall that the train is headed for District 4, and sigh with relief. If we can get to the Victor's Village of that district, I have a feeling there's someone there who would be willing to help us. My mother is staying in the Capitol with Peeta and Delly, so I don't have to worry about seeing her.

Each time I breathe in, a dull ache in my chest ignites and explodes into unbearable pain. I clutch it tightly with my bloodied palms, but the only way to really lessen the pain is to lie down. I take shallow breaths as I slowly and cautiously lean back, using a smaller burlap sack of coal as a pillow. Tears are prickling my eyes and my face is hot with anger and frustration, but I refuse to break down now. I need to stay strong until Haymitch is healthy and we're safe in District 4.

I had thought all of this was over. Running for my life, for the life of a loved one. Betrayal, hurt, riots. My life in the public eye. I thought I could start to lead a normal life.

I guess not.

I watch Haymitch, just to make sure he's breathing. He is, but just barely; his chest moves up and down painfully slowly, and it scares me. But I keep my eyes on him; there's nothing more I can do. I keep my eyes on him until I drift back into a dreamless, restless slumber.

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><p>This time, a scream rouses me from my slumber. And it's not a scream coming from my nightmares.<p>

"What's going on? Are you _Katniss Everdeen_?" a young woman's voice inquires anxiously.

My eyes feel leaden and I struggle to open them. The woman who screamed looks nervous. Who wouldn't be, with two bloody, unconscious celebrities on their train? "I'm so sorry," I mumble, but surprisingly, her expression shifts from fear to understanding.

"I'll go get you two some food," she whispers. "Rob has a first aid kit somewhere-"

"You're not kicking us off?" I ask. It seems too good to be true. She calms down at the sound of my voice steadying.

"Let's just say…I saw the news, and how they were all rioting to break you two up. And I know a thing or two about star-crossed love," she winks. "I'll get breakfast. And a wrap. Your man's ankle needs some serious tending to."

She's gone into the dark night sky with a wave of ginger hair and a feeling of warmth and kindness that's remarkably hard to come by. I look over to Haymitch. His grey eyes are staring at the wall of the train, but I have a feeling he's not really seeing anything. I'm able to sit up with less pain now, so I scoot over towards him.

"Haymitch?" I nudge him gently. "Haymitch?"

He doesn't answer, and my heart races with fear and anger. Haymitch deserves more than anyone to finally be happy and healthy, and this is the state he's in. Bloody and broken. If Prim were here, she'd know what to do. I'm sure of it. It's a sobering thought, and sadness envelopes me. I can do nothing but sit in silence and think of the beautiful little girl who left too soon until I hear light footsteps make their way back to our compartment.

"Miss Everdeen?" the woman peeks her face in the half-open compartment door.

"Call me Katniss. Please," I say, flustered. I'll never get used to being famous. Or, rather, infamous.

"Here's some apples and sandwiches. And a jug of water. Rob's coming with a first aid kit in a few minutes," she says, handing me a bundle of cheese in warm bread. Ravenous, I eat one in just a few bites, and start on a second. There are at least five, but I could eat twenty and still not be full. I remind myself that I have to save some for Haymitch, though.

After washing down three sandwiches with a few gulps of fresh, cool water, I thank the woman graciously. "You really did save us. Thank you…What's your name?" I ask.

"Astrid," she answers with a grin. "Astrid Beecher. And you're welcome. You've done so much for Panem. You and him both."

"Sorry for hiding on your train," I add sheepishly.

"It's no problem at all. All you did was sleep, really," Astrid says, and we laugh.

"How long have we been out, exactly?"

"About a day. We still have twenty more hours until we'll get to District 4. Once we're there, though, Rob and I won't be able to help you, sweetie…We don't know anyone there who could take you in," she says with a frown.

"Don't worry about it. I know someone there," I reassure her.

"That's good. I would hate to have you and Mr. Abernathy chased by a mob again," she sighs. "It's such a shame."

"How much of it was broadcasted onto the news? Does anyone know we're headed for 4?" I ask fearfully.

"No one knows where you are, thankfully, but they know you and Haymitch escaped from your home, and your mother's being…overprotective," she informs me. "I'm sorry she's not very understanding. Mine wasn't either."

My eyes widen as I notice that Astrid's stomach is very round; she must be at least six months pregnant. "Are you married to Rob?" I ask curiously.

She nods. "I married him when I was just a teenager. I'm twenty-three now, and my family still hasn't come around. They don't like him. I don't think they ever will. I sent them a letter a while back telling them I was pregnant with a little baby girl, and they never replied. They don't want anything to do with their first and only grandchild."

"How do you…cope?" I ask in awe.

"The way I see it, you shouldn't love someone just because they're related to you. You should love someone because they're a good person and they treat you the way you deserve. If Haymitch does that, and your family and friends don't, I see nothing wrong with leaving them behind and starting a new life with him. That's what I'm doing," Astrid shrugs.

Her words move me, and I realize she's right. Before I have time to thank her for her help, a slightly older looking man with strands of grey mixed into his brown hair approaches us. He's holding a first aid kit in one hand, and extends the other to me.

"Katniss Everdeen, it's a pleasure to meet you," he says with a warm smile resembling Astrid's.

"Thank you so much for all your help," I say as I shake his hand.

He goes to work on Haymitch's ankle, wrapping it tightly into a thick cloth and surrounding it with ice-packs. The grapefruit-sized ankle slowly begins to shrink. Rob gives us painkillers and bandages, and I apply them all over myself and Haymitch. Haymitch's eyes have shut and he's fallen asleep again, but his breathing is steadier, deeper, and calmer.

"You saved us, you know," I tell Rob and Astrid as they leave to start up the train again. "If you ever need anything, call for Annie Cresta in District 4. That's where we'll be staying if everything goes to plan."


End file.
